Globetrotters
by mad margaret
Summary: Part 2 in the Willie Loomis World Series, sequel to "Little Willie," The adventures, world travels and con games of Willie Loomis and Jason McGuire prior to their arrival in Collinsport, Director's cut, rewritten with added scenes. Thanks for reading, and taking the time to review.
1. Real Jobs

_A/N: This is the sequel to Little Willie. If a reference is made to something you don't remember, it probably came from that story.  
I do not own Dark Shadows or any other copyrighted material contained herein.  
This is a rewrite of the original to include additional scenes.  
This series also appears on my LiveJournal site with lots of photos and screencaps, most of which came from Sara Monster at Willie Loomis Saves Collinsport. I can't print the url but if you go to LiveJournal, search for Willie Loomis or Lizzie Bathory, and it should come up. __  
The time period has shifted from the original TV series. The first story begins in 1956. This installment covers the years 1975 to 1980. Willie goes from 19 to 25 years old. __  
As always, your comments and reviews are welcome and appreciated. _

* * *

**February 1975**

The first job Jason and Willie procured was on a tramp steam vessel called the _Bremerhaven_, sailing to North Carolina. They stuck with that ship for awhile, traveling to Port-au-Prince, Barbados and on to South America, transporting wheat, barley, construction equipment, and oil supplies. Willie wasn't sure how his partner got him on board that first time; he never had a real job before. His only legitimate documentation was his illegitimate birth certificate, and his own mother didn't know where that was. But the ship was owned by a foreign company and perhaps they didn't look too closely at Willie's brand new passport.

Jason's previous seafaring experience earned him assignments such as inward freight clerk, insurance clerk, voucher clerk-anything that would plant him behind a desk. On the other side of forty now, he wasn't about to be swabbing decks. Willie was given an entry-level job as wiper, a position responsible for cleaning and maintaining the engine room and its equipment. They worked shifts of 4 hours on/8 off/4 on/8 off, seven days a week. It wasn't very exciting work, but it was a real job and the meals were regular, so the new sailor didn't mind. It beat the hell out of his last employment.

His favorite assignment was watch duty, for Willie would stare at the horizon in amazement, whether the view was coastline or endless sea. In the past, his only travels had traced a chain of seedy motels and concrete highways. Now he was sailing up the Orinoco River in fucking Venezuela, where he could observe native rainforest tribes along the riverbanks.

Jason did not share the young man's fascination for these scenic vistas. His goal was a touristy destination where they could lay over for a while, put together a few deals, and refill the till. They needed to sign on for Trinidad or Aruba. For lack of other entertainment, Willie listened to the Irishman reiterate his big plans for big payoffs. His only other companionship was limited to the number of crew members who spoke English, and subtract from that the Brits because of Jason's disdain for Limeys.

What remained was a small pack of Southern trailer trash with whom Willie, when left to his own devices, would drink and brawl. They played craps and poker but the hoodlum couldn't swindle any real cash because no one was paid until the end of the voyage. Still, he could use them for practice. They would drawl on about their sprawling families, brushes with the law and sexual conquests. Willie didn't have any personal anecdotes he wished to share but would recycle stories Charlie the barroom drunk told him when he was a kid or retell movie plots as personal experience.

For slightly more than a year, the duo traveled the East Coast, from North to South America, frequently laying over in the Caribbean. Willie learned a little Spanish and French, sometimes mixing them together, enough to get whores and drinks and play cards. "_Bonita se__ñ__orita,_ _combien ça coûte?"_(1)

They were on the poop deck of the _Alma Molina_, heading north again to Boston. Jason reprimanded the boy for his misuse of free time. "What is this habit you have of drawin' low life to ya like a magnet?"

Willie snorted with laughter. "Who exactly are ya talkin' about, Jason?"

"Now, don't get smart with me. Stick with losers, and you'll become one of them. You're startin' to talk like you're from the bowels of Alabama."

The young sailor shrugged. "I like them. They call me Brooklyn."

"As if they knew where that is. We're finally headed for a good port where we can drop anchor for a while and do some business."

Willie pointed over the port stern. "Holy shit, look, a whale!"

Jason smacked him on the side of the head. "Pay attention. If you're not at the top of your game, you will end up in jail. And I promise you, lad, I'll not be there to keep ya company."

Willie leaned over the railing, gazing out to sea. "But it's a whale; that's so cool." Sighing, he turned back to his senior partner who was apparently unimpressed by such phenomena. "I know the short cons. I'm good. I could palm a twenty on you."

"Don't count on it; and it's time to think about puttin' together a long con. It's a lot more reward for a lot less work."

"Well, don't hold out on me, man," he punched Jason's arm. "Let's get crackin.'"

Thus began Willie's further tutorials on the art of the shill.

* * *

Footnotes:

(1) Pretty lady, how much?


	2. Atlantic City

**A/N: please see Chapter 1. **

* * *

**May 1976**

Jason's original plan was to head to Martha's Vineyard once they parted with the ship, but his intuition told him to stay in Boston. There Willie worked small cons, and his partner visited a dear old friend of his. Details were not divulged, but apparently Jason had helped her out when she was in trouble as a young woman by putting her in contact with one of his many acquaintances. It would not do for the lady's husband and children to find out about this, so she gave the man a large cash gift as a token of her gratitude.

This windfall was celebrated with a trip to Atlantic City for Willie's first vacation. After acquiring snazzy, new clothes with dress shoes, and lodgings in a better hotel, Jason was anxious to check out the town's first and newly opened casino. His sidekick, however, was not keen to be left behind.

"Sorry, lad; no minors allowed."

"This says I'm 22," Willie held out his driver's license. "And I really am 21." He was nineteen, but he knew Jason wouldn't remember that.

The Irishman stopped in his tracks. "What? Since when?"

The young man thought for a moment. "Since, like, five months ago."

Jason quickly recovered. "Why didn't you speak up, m'boy? Your 21st birthday, now that's somethin.'"

It was Willie's turn to look puzzled. "What for? In all the time I known ya, ya never once asked me when my birthday was. Why the fuck should I tell ya now?"

"What are you talkin' about? It's right here on your license."

"No, it ain't—that's prob'ly your birthday."

Jason looked closer and laughed. "So it is—Well, then we'll celebrate now. Get dressed if you're comin'; you'll be needin' a sport coat to get in."

Willie flashed his license as usual, nested in his palm as to cast a shadow over the photo, but the casino bouncer was an experienced detector of such misrepresentations and plucked it from his hand. He scrutinized the kid, looked at the card, and tossed it in the trash.

"Hey, that's mine—"

"So long, junior. Your card's expired, and it's a fake."

_Shit._ Willie needed that card to get into bars. He wanted to fish it out of the waste basket but the bouncer blocked his path. Jason appeared behind the stone-faced man.

"Is there a problem, sir? The lad is my nephew; we're celebratin' his 21st, don't you know?" Jason laid his accent on thick as butter when he thought it might impress someone.

"Sorry, sir, can't get in without ID. Those're the rules."

Jason and Willie's eyes met. The Irishman shook his head and shrugged and his young partner growled. Jason was going on without him.

"I'll just be a little while, then." the older man chirped. "We'll meet back at the hotel, m'boy. Now, don't be gettin' into any trouble."

Willie scowled. "Yessir," If Jason started a story, he had to go along; that was a rule. He retorted in a mimicry of his partner's accent, "Sure an' whatever ya say—_Uncle_ Jason."

With his hands stuffed in pockets, the young man trudged off down the boardwalk, looking for something else to do. He'd find himself a hooker and make his own entertainment. _To hell with Jason_. He glanced up and down the promenade, sizing up the talent_. Damn, they're all dressed alike. I can't tell the whores from regular girls. _

He plopped down in the nearest clam bar and pulled out his billfold, ready to devour some seafood and beer—or maybe go somewhere else for a burger. It had been ages since he had a hamburger and fries, although whatever it was that Portuguese cook made on their last trip was pretty damn good.

Willie's wallet was empty. All the evening's money was, as usual, in Jason's pocket and not his. So, he was back out on the boards, scrounging for free samples of fudge and roasted peanuts.

He thought about picking some pockets. Crowded tourist areas were prime locations for such activities, but Willie felt uncertain; their usual play was a two-man operation. Jason would stop a man to ask for directions and while they conversed, Willie would come tearing down the street looking over his shoulder, schoolbooks in hand, and crash into the "mark." Jason would help the poor man up and brush off his coat while the kid scrambled underfoot for his books in all directions, both talking a mile a minute."

"Oh, I'm sorry, mister! I didn't see—"  
"Now, look at that! Are you alright, sir? Can I –"

Jason retrieved the victim's wallet if it was in his breast pocket, Willie got it if it was in the back. Sometimes the watch as well, if they were lucky. It was simple and obvious, so it worked.

Willie decided to try a single hit. It had been a long time, but it was a necessary risk; he needed money. Again, he scanned the boardwalk, tuning in his radar for spotting an easy target.

There were two teenage boys browsing a rack of T-shirts: tall, lanky kids with jewfros and wire-rimmed glasses—and hundred dollar sneakers. Willie tucked his empty wallet up his jacket sleeve and went shopping.

As he approached the sales rack, the young man acquired a slight stagger. He flipped clumsily through the shirts, reading the funny sayings on them, laughing out loud once or twice. The boys looked sideways at the drunken guy, chuckled and nudged each other. Soon the three of them were searching and showing each other the raunchiest ones, laughing harder. Willie spotted something under the rack and reached down to retrieve it. The wallet slipped from his sleeve into his hand.

He targeted the geekier looking kid: _Mark 1_. "Hey, buddy, look what I found on the floor. Ya dropped your wallet." Willie put his arm around the boy's shoulder, slurring his words. "You gotta be more careful."

"That's not—" Mark 1 cut himself off. Maybe they had come into some unexpected cash. "Oh, maybe. Lemme see—" He took the billfold and examined it. "Nah, it's empty." The teen patted his back pocket. "Mine's right here."

His friend, Mark 2, took the empty wallet and placed it on a shelf. "Let's put it here in case someone comes back for it."

"Good idea. Ohh—" Willie staggered into Mark 1, who grabbed him. Mark 2 reached over to help.

"Hey, man, are you okay?"

Willie regained his balance and laughed. "Yeah, sorry. I partied hardy tonight—it's my 21st birthday."

The boys were duly impressed. "Wow! You had your first drink tonight?"

"Hell, yeah!" They shared the laughter. Then young man's face went suddenly serious. "Shit. I'm supposed to go home. Someone's waiting for me—" he winked at them "—if you know what I mean."

"Lucky guy, get outta here!" The teenagers laughed and pushed him out the door, and Willie ran down the boardwalk.

A short distance away the pickpocket found a public restroom and huddled in a stall to count up. He scored both billfolds and was feeling extremely pleased with himself. _This is what it feels like to take candy from a baby. _He tossed the wallets in the trash, put a few bucks in his pocket and tucked the rest in his shoe.

Taking a deep breath of sea air, Willie stepped back onto the boardwalk to resume his original plan. However, the pork roll sandwiches at a nearby stand smelled really good, so he had one with a Coke.

As he dumped his trash into a basket by the railing, Mark 1 jumped him from behind, knocking himself, Willie, the trash container and its contents onto the ground. They scuffled. Willie rolled and sprang to his feet and Mark 1 followed. If the other one helped out, the pickpocket could be in trouble, but Mark 2 stood at a safe distance, holding his friend's glasses.

The opponents lunged at each other, and Willie got increasingly frustrated by the boy's surprising strength and ability to hold him in locks from which he escaped only because they were slipping in melted ice cream and soggy French fries. _Who is he, captain of some high school wrestling team?_ If so, then he plays by rules, which meant to fight dirty. Usually effective was a blood-spurting punch to nose, followed in quick succession by a jab to the throat and kick in the balls.

The mission was aborted by the sound of a whistle, and the two were pulled apart by boardwalk patrol officers. Suddenly, Willie couldn't breathe and dinner lurched in his stomach. In the aftermath of his former profession, he had a dire fear of cops.

"Sir, are you alright?" The officer was helping him up. It was a policewoman—not large, but strong and capable, with short, dark hair and big, beautiful brown eyes which instantly captivated him. _Holy crap, honey, if you weren't a cop…_ He seriously considered losing his balance in order to accidently grab a breast.

Willie forced himself to focus. _She called me sir._ "Thank you, I'll be fine. That boy jumped me from behind."

"No, hey! We were just talking back there, and that asshole stole our goddamn wallets!" Mark 1 bellowed.

The cops looked at the polite young man, shaking slightly as he took stock of his soiled, ripped suit, then to the angry, bushy-haired, foul-mouthed teenagers. Well, one was angry; the other looked scared.

I promise you, I don't have anyone's wallet." Willie turned out his pockets as proof, producing nothing but a condom and handful of change. He looked up in wide-eyed dismay. "Not even my own. Looks like I've been robbed too."

"But it was—"Mark 1 started to demonstrate, patting his back pocket.

"Seems like you made a big mistake, kids," said the male officer. "You all got hit, which is a shame, but I think you owe this guy an apology."

Mark 1 kicked the boards angrily, put on his glasses and looked into Willie's weary face. Was this a trick? He detected the faintest glint of smugness in the man's eyes, one that said _gotcha, sucker_.

"Sir, do you want to press charges?" the female cop asked, almost simultaneously with Mark 2 who called out, "Sorry! We're sorry."

Willie nodded to Mark 2. "No, it's okay. I just really need to get home. My mother's goin' to be worried." Mark 1 shot a look at him as Willie quickly patched his story. "—And my girlfriend."

"Would you like a lift in the patrol car?"

"No!" was the hasty reply. "We're just around the corner. Thanks, though, for all your help. G'night." He headed towards the board ramp that led to the street, wondering with a big grin if the scrappy lads would get a lecture and escort home.

Willie stopped a block away and wondered what to do next. He couldn't return to the hotel because he didn't have the key. The thief had cash now but nowhere to spend it, looking as he did. He circled back and settled in on the beach, deserted and dark.

Backlit by the noisy, neon boardwalk, the continual crash of waves before him was peaceful and soothing. Even with the smell of rotting fish, it was a pretty nice night. He pulled his knees to his chest and rested his chin there. The kid could feel repercussions of a few cuts and bruises, but in the end, it had been a good time. Messy. Willie liked to fight, as long as he didn't lose. The sounds of the tide lulled him to sleep. He dreamed about a woman with big brown eyes.

* * *

"Get up, Willie." Jason nudged his shoulder. "I knew I'd find you here. Do you see that sign? No trespassin' on the beach after 10 pm."

His junior partner looked up at him. "Oh yes, we wouldn't wanna break the law." He stood up and brushed the sand off his trousers.

"You don't want to attract unnecessary attention to yourself—Jesus, Mary and Joseph! Look at the blood!"

The young man checked the front of his shirt and laughed. "That's ketchup. I had a fight with a trashcan."

"You need to be on a leash."The Irishman gave him a push towards the boardwalk. "Ruinin' your nice new clothes that cost us dear. Move!"

They stopped briefly on a bench so Jason could empty the sand out of his shoes.

"Hey, Jason, why'd you leave me out here with no key or money?"

"Why did ya try to use an old expired driver's license?" Willie looked confused. "Why didn't you just show them your passport? It's excellent quality, impossible to detect."

"Why didn't ya tell me to?"

The older man looked him in the eyes. "Because ya have to learn to think for yourself. Someday I won't there to save your arse, and if you're not careful, you'll go down, m'lad." He fished Willie's license out of his pocket and handed it over. "Here ya go. We can have this doctored to be up-to-date, even put your real birthday on it."

"How'd ya get it back?" The boy no longer had a wallet, so he stuck it in his breast pocket. The other man took note of this.

"No matter," he replied. "This is small time. When we go to Monte Carlo, you and I will do some real gamblin.'"

They sat quietly. Willie considered telling his partner about the score tonight. Maybe he'd show him later—on the other hand, maybe not. _I can have secrets, and I don't need you to hold my money._ Suddenly, another thought came to mind.

"Don't make me call you _Uncle Jason_ ever again. That was sick."

"And was that you attemptin' a brogue? Oh no, no, there's only one of us."

"Oh no, no, only one of us," he parroted, imitating the man's Irish accent.

"Willie." Jason pointed a finger in the kid's face with exaggerated disapproval. Willie cracked up and slapped it away.

"Let's go home."

* * *

Jason hung his clothes on a closet hanger, carefully so they wouldn't wrinkle, and donned his cotton pajamas and robe. It was a little frayed at the cuffs, but someday he would have a silk robe—and a velvet smoking jacket. He sat in the armchair reading his dog-eared copy of _Finnegan's Wake_. Willie stripped to the waist and threw his stuff in a corner.

"_Wherever I may roam,  
on land or sea or foam,  
You can always hear me singin' this song  
Show me the way to go home!"_

"Willie Loomis, you have got to be the worst singer on God's good earth. Why do you want to torture the other guests who are tryin' to sleep?"

"Aw, don't hurt my feelings; I'm gonna be a rock star," the other returned jokingly.

"Sure you are. Wash up."

The young man plopped on his bed and started to take off his shoes but stopped short. Jason looked up, one brow raised. "What's in your shoe, Willie?"

"Sand. I don't wanna get it all over the carpet."

"Because you're so neat and considerate."

"Because I don't want it in my bed. I'll take 'em off in the bathroom—over the sink." He moved into the next room, not too quickly, and shut the door.

Willie emerged showered and toweled, and dressed for bed in boxer shorts and tank top undershirt—what his shipmates called a _wife beater_. He tossed his pants in the corner and placed his shoes carefully under the nightstand. "Guess I haveta throw out those new clothes," he said casually. "Can I watch TV?"

"Yes, you will; and no, it's late." His young partner flopped on his bed. "So, kiddo, let's see what's in your shoe." Jason's tone was patient and even.

Willie jumped back up and stuck his head in the mini bar refrigerator. "I dunno what you're talkin' about. I knocked out all the sand."

"Don't play games with me. I know you stash in your shoe, and your wallet has gone missin'." The older man put down his book and stood. "Show me the score."

The boy stood up as well, in a standoff. Their eyes locked. "No, it's mine. I made it myself."

Jason swept the shoe from the floor as Willie threw a punch at him. The larger man blocked it and struck him across the face with the shoe, sending him sprawling. Jason dumped the cash onto his bed, along with a sprinkle of sand. "You're forgettin' we're partners, lad," he said. "Share and share alike." Jason counted up, tossed $10 at Willie and pocketed the lion's share—_for the nest egg_.

"Don't ever hold out on me again," He said with an undertone of menace, and went out on the balcony to smoke.

With a smear of blood on his cheekbone and a shiner on the way, Willie sat where he landed on the floor, stunned and angry—not so much because of the blow. He and Jason hit each other all the time, though not usually with shoes. But his ego was bruised, and he was mad because Jason always had to win; he had to be the boss, had to hold the money. Willie was tired of being the junior partner, always pushed around; someday he would call the shots.

_I can do whatever the fuck I want._ He took a beer from the fridge, lit a cigarette in bed and turned on the TV. He held the cold can to his face. Willie was asleep when the Irishman returned to the room. Jason threw out the can, put out the lad's cigarette and covered him with the bedspread. Then he retired for the evening.


	3. Branching Out

_please see Chapter 1 for author notes_

* * *

Atlantic City turned out to be a good place to hang for a while. It was chock full of greedy people, some of whom had too much money for their own good. There was also a lot of drug use going on, and drugs were like prostitution; you couldn't report to the authorities a deal gone south.

The duo didn't go near the boardwalk or the casino—security was too tight—but to the bars and discos on the fringe. They relocated to more modest living arrangements and took their meals out of a can or at a luncheonette.

Except for a few up-front expenditures—a new driver's license for Willie and a carton of cheap wrist watches—the senior partner kept a tight grip on the purse strings. No more hookers and buying drinks for the house. All profits went in the proverbial piggybank to bankroll the long con, the big payoff. Jason was obsessed with it.

Willie liked these new scenarios because he often had the leading role, and Jason was his shill; that meant he was capable and his mentor trusted him. What it really meant was that Willie looked more like a druggie. Their knowledge of such dealings was limited but, with the right script, it's easy to con dopes that are just begging for it. The kid had smoked marijuana in the Caribbean, where it was cheap and plentiful, and shared hashish that smelled like spices with some Turkish sailors.

Their mark was a 30-something with a droopy mustache and a polyester leisure suit. Jason sat on a barstool a few seats away. He held a $20 up to the bartender and ordered a Guinness. While his drink was being poured, Jason palmed the twenty and slipped a ten in its place. The barkeep took the bill without noticing, put it in the cash register and brought back $18.50 in change.

The Irishman looked a little nervous, checking his watch and counting the cash in his billfold. "Mark" made inane small talk to which Jason politely responded. After a while, Willie sauntered in, took a stool between the two, flashed his ID to the bartender before being asked, and ordered a beer.

"I've been waitin' here for 20 minutes. What have ya got?" Jason demanded.

Willie put his finger to his lips, looked around and sipped his beer. "Shut the fuck up," he whispered, and in a sloppy handoff, slipped Jason a small baggie of oregano. Mark pretended not to watch.

Jason was peeved. "This is not what we agreed upon. What's goin' on? I brought the cash."

The dealer drank with one hand and held the other out under the bar. Jason handed him a stack of bills which he counted, again under the bar, and handed back.

"Not enough. I told you, this guy only deals in big quantities."

"But you said you had the rest."

Willie shrugged. "I was wrong."

At this point, the fly walked into their spider web and introduced himself. "Excuse me, you got any more of that to, uh—"

"Shit." The drug dealer shot a glance at him, spun in his seat and started for the door. Mark grabbed his arm.

"Wait! Where're you—?"

"You're a cop."

"No!" Then he looked curious. "Do I look like a cop?"

"Yeah."

Mark laughed. "That's funny. I'm just trying to score some weed." He led the young man back to bar. "Let me buy you a drink."

Willie looked skeptical. "I got a drink."

After considerable prodding, the druggie explained to Mark that his source sold pot in quarter-pound quantities, bagged by the ounce, for $400. It was a great deal if you had the cash outlay. You could split it up and resell to your friends at market price, providing free smoke for you and a profit to boot. But they were $200 short to pull off the deal.

"I'd love to get in on this, but I don't have that much on me," Mark said.

"The bartender will cash a check," Jason suddenly offered.

"Whoa, hold on," Willie interrupted, holding up a hand to Jason, he spoke to Mark. "I don't even know you. I only deal with people I know."

"My name is Mark." Willie stifled a smile as Mark proceeded to beg the boy to take his money.

Willie wadded up the cash roll from Jason and the dupe and stuffed it in his pocket.

"This'll take about 45 minutes—"

"In that case, I'm goin' to the gents." Jason excused himself to visit the restroom and slipped out the back door.

"He's such a loser," the dealer confided to his new associate. "If I knew someone better, I wouldn't deal with him anymore." Mark smiled, and Willie smiled back.

He wrote a phone number on the back of his cardboard coaster. "I dunno if I can trust him with this, so I'm givin' it to you. There's a pay phone over there. Call this number in 30 minutes, and I'll tell you where to meet me. Okay?" He headed for the door.

"Hey, wait!" Mark had a thought. Willie turned on his heel and walked back, slightly impatient. "How do I know you won't just take off with my money?"

The dealer thought for a moment then hesitantly pulled off his wristwatch. "Here. Hold this till I get back. And be careful; don't scratch it. It's a Rolex." The boy looked at him trustingly. "It was my dad's." They shook hands, and Willie shot out the front door.

Mark sat back at the bar and drained his glass, then patted the watch in his pocket. He could take off now, before the other dude got back. To hell with the weed; he just scored a Rolex for $200.

* * *

That was a good payoff for one hour's effort. They could work this scam for a couple of weeks in different parts of town before it would have to go into the back drawer. But Willie was getting antsy and wanted to blow town. Jason wouldn't let him hang out on the beach or the boardwalk, and the boy couldn't sit all day in that hell hole of a motel room watching cockroaches. So they hopped a bus for Philly.

**June 1976**

Willie felt more at home in a big city. Late in the evenings he sold fake hashish to teenagers on subway platforms. It was a recipe for Playdoh mixed with powdered sage, left out to harden, then shaped into little balls and wrapped in tinfoil. He wished he could make fake cocaine, which would turn a bigger profit, but couldn't get the right consistency. Some people, he knew, used talcum powder, but that wasn't right. It needed to be choppy, didn't it? Like little rocks.

Jason was working another part of town. He opened a business bank account called JM Investment Management Fund, printed business cards, engaged an answering service, and crashed cocktail parties on the Main Line. This was not the big score. People were not about to write million dollar checks to an unknown entity, but in exchange for some big promises, they were certainly willing to test the waters. The Irishman flattered and fawned and led living room sing-alongs while playing their baby grands. He had a way of charming the panties off of recent divorcees and long-time widows.

There was no part for Willie in this storyline, but just as well, that was not his scene. He haunted subways, bars and discos during the week and spent Friday and Saturday nights on South Street, where he sold balls of Playdoh and bags of oregano in front of the Theatre of the Living Arts to girls in sequined corsets and guys in fishnet stockings and spooky makeup. They would line up outside the theatre before midnight, and the street vendors of T shirts, posters and record albums would hawk their wares. He picked pockets when opportunity presented itself, but it's difficult to lift a wallet out of a guy's garter belt.

By 12:05 Willie would find himself standing alone on the deserted street. One night (or morning) he stopped to look at the movie poster with its big red lips and the title in dripping blood. Even the cashier was gone, so the young man decided to see what all the fuss was about Rocky Horror and slipped inside.

The house was packed. Willie squeezed in between a guy with stringy blond hair hanging off a bald cap and a girl in her underwear with a ripped half slip. She handed him a joint that was being passed down the aisle, right out in the open. The boy shrugged, took a hit, and passed it on.

The audience shouted at the movie screen, climbed onto stage to mimic the actors and danced in the aisles. Willie was pummeled with uncooked rice, toast and toilet paper. He didn't have any of his own props, but pulled out his lighter when everyone else did and waved it in the air. He had no idea why because he couldn't follow the plot or hear anything going on in the movie but apparently that wasn't the point. The young man lit a cigarette but ten seconds later got squirted by an usher with a water pistol.

"You can't smoke in a movie theatre. What's the matter with you?"

This place had some crazy ass rules.

The City of Brotherly Love was fun, but their stay was short. Jason needed to close his accounts and make a hasty exit. Just as well, because Willie couldn't keep showing up on South Street with imitation drugs; the same people came back all the time and eventually he would get caught. At first he wondered why someone would want to see the same film over and over again, every weekend. But that was before he knew it was to participate in a rock 'n roll musical event with almost naked girls and cannibal transvestite aliens from outer space.

Being at that cinema gave him a feeling of camaraderie with peers he hadn't known for a long time. If he and Jason had stuck around, Willie thought he might stop pushing the fake weed and join in the party. Bring some rice and newspapers. He would have dressed up as Eddie, the greaser who comes in on a motorcycle and then gets murdered with an ice pick and eaten.

When the film was over, the throng would migrate to South Philly where you could get a steak sandwich on a torpedo roll with Cheese Whiz and ketchup at 2:30 in the morning. Willie would tag along because the other kids talked to him and treated him like a friend. If this kept up, the boy promised himself he would stop picking their pockets.

But, back in the world that was Willie's reality, it was time for a hasty exit.

"One step closer, m'boy, to the big payoff." Jason folded his nice suit and tucked it neatly into his sea chest as his partner shoved his possessions into a duffle, along with his growing collection of hotel soaps and shampoos.

"I wish we could go to the ball park," the boy said as he threw out the newspaper. "It says here that the Phillies are playing the Dodgers at Veterans Stadium. I never seen a live ball game, Jason."

"Not now, lad," his companion replied. "We've no time or money for such distractions. Mustn't miss the tide."

Willie knew that wasn't true but didn't comment. Jason had just finished bragging about how fat the score was in Philadelphia, that cash flow was good and prospects were high. The Irishman just didn't like baseball, especially not the Dodgers since the kid lost a wad of cash gambling on his favorite team.

The sailors headed for the docks where Jason had signed them on another tramp ship called _Nuestra Señora_, bound for Kilkenny, Ireland.


	4. The European Tour

_Please see Chapter 1 for A/N_

* * *

**July 1976**

Their voyage on the _Nuestra Señora_ afforded Jason and Willie a rise in status. Jason was deck officer and Willie became assistant to the shipwright(2), who was Swiss or German, something like that. Otto Zimmerman demonstrated and explained carefully to Willie the techniques of timber repair, woodworking and sanding. Willie watched intently, interjecting an occasional "_ja_," as if he understood what the fuck the old man was saying. It beat cleaning the engine room.

"And how is our new wright getting on?" Jason asked. They hadn't seen each other much during this trip. As an officer, Jason had separate mess and quarters.

"_Machst gut_," Willie quoted the master carpenter. "That means I'm doin' okay." He lit a cigarette. "Not as good as bein' an officer, though. So, when do _I_ get a cabin?"

"Always gettin' ahead of yourself. I've been at sea almost 30 years, kid."

"What about the first mate? He's kinda young."

"Castillo was in the navy, and he went to college." Willie looked sullen. "Where did you get those cigarettes?" Jason asked, changing the subject.

"From Papadakis—he's the steward. Won 'em in a card game." He flicked his ash. "Nobody on this damn tub speaks English, and the hold is fulla rats."

"Ah, well. We'll be in port soon. You won't mind the rats when we get to Africa; you'll be too busy lookin' out for spiders and scorpions. Don't forget to always shake out your socks before putting them on. One bite and—" He slid his finger across his throat.

"Willie versus the Spider Monsters!" Willie laughed, pitching his cigarette butt like a dart into the Atlantic.

They sailed into Kilkenny's port in the dead of night and immediately commenced unloading their cargo—chemicals of some sort, not to be spilled nor mishandled, regardless of the rodent-infested dock lit only by lantern and moonlight. The crew moved through the fog with quiet efficiency and an unspoken sense of uneasiness.

Ireland was cold and damp, even in summer. A chilly dawn broke over the fishing village's housetops as Willie and Jason cashed in their vouchers and headed for town in search of breakfast. Jason ordered them a country feast of eggs, bangers,(3) fried tomato slices and baked beans, black pudding and brown bread, washed down with thick, strong coffee and clotted cream.

Now, Willie assumed they would stay in Ireland for a while, so Jason could visit his family and friends, catch up on old times and things like that, but the opposite was true. No sooner had they set foot on dry land than Jason moved them to Dublin and was making plans to be off. He made it clear, without explanation, that they would not be dropping in on Mum and Da, nor his clan of siblings in County Cork, if any of them were still alive. He contacted only a few acquaintances during their trek, and even then for the briefest of meetings.

Willie figured, _I guess_ y_ou just can't go home again__, or m__aybe there was a warrant out for his arrest. Probably both. _

Dublin looked like a war zone. Although the "troubles" were concentrated in the North, British soldiers patrolled the streets and evidence of IRA doings abounded.

The sailors were holed up in a pub where Willie was trying to fathom the sense of drinking black beer with lemon soda while the older man gripped his newspaper, scowling.

It related the story of an ongoing trial of several IRSP members,(4) some of whom Jason knew, arrested in connection with a mail train robbery. The authorities failed to produce a _book of evidence_ against them. However, after interrogation in Garda Síochána(5) custody, all gave full confessions. He threw the paper to the floor near the storefront window.

"Guardians of the peace!" Jason scoffed. "And their persuasive methods. They signed those confessions from hospital beds, I'm sure." His partner shrugged, not understanding. "And it's their own damn fault. You always get rid of the weak link in the chain or he'll drag you down with him. You stick your neck out for no man, ya hear me?"

Willie ignored his companion's foul mood. If he hated his mother country so much, the boy didn't understand why they sailed to Ireland to begin with.

"Hey, Jason, can I see that?" He indicated the discarded newspaper.

"Since when do you read anything?" The Irishman threw back his whiskey in one swallow.

Willie walked over and bent to retrieve the paper. "Chill out. I just like to look at the comics. Do they have Bill Bailey and Lil Ab—?"

The explosion rocked Jason from his stool and shattered the window, showering his young partner with broken glass. He grabbed Willie up and into the nearest doorway and, after confirming there were no significant injuries, the pair headed down the back alley in the opposite direction of the oncoming police sirens.

That explosion, they learned later, was a diversionary tactic from a car bomb that assassinated the British ambassador a few miles south.

* * *

They couldn't exit the Emerald Isle fast enough for Jason. He booked them, at the first opportunity, aboard a ship bound for Vigo, in the north of Spain, and Willie voiced his disappointment. First, he didn't get to enjoy a redhead that smelled of shamrocks in the spring, like his partner had promised and, second, he wanted to go to London.

"Over my dead body," was Jason's reaction. "What on earth for?"

"I heard they got some pretty rocks there. I wanna see the crown jewels."

"They're behind glass, Willie. You can't touch 'em or try 'em on. Besides, they're not at home. On a tour of the states, they are, for the Bicentennial."

"Bicen-what?"

"That's when somethin' is 200 years old. In this case, your country."

"Old as dirt."

* * *

Willie tossed fitfully in his berth. In his dream, he was fighting in a back alley, behind a bar. His opponent was a looming, dark figure with no face and superhuman strength who repeatedly punched him in the jaw. The kid slashed him with his switchblade, but no blood came forth. The demon smashed his face into a brick wall. Willie tried to elbow him in the gut but his head was locked in the crook of the phantom's arm. He bit down on the man's sleeve and chewed on the coat material, like he wanted to eat it. When he woke, the boy discovered he had been trying to stuff the pillow into his mouth.

After two agonizing days, they reached port and Jason found a dentist with whom he could communicate. That is to say, the dentist spoke a little English and Jason spoke a fair amount of Spanish.

Willie had four impacted wisdom teeth and needed surgery. While he was in there, the dentist could replace the kid's missing tooth with an implant. So, the piggybank was broken and Jason spent the next week in a hostel playing nursemaid to his young friend, who downed painkillers and dulce de leche laced with rum.

They left Spain, heading for Italy, and later Greece before embarking down the coast of Western Africa. Willie felt that he had been on so many ships, he couldn't tell them apart or remember what they were transporting. The ports looked alike, the bars and the women were alike—they came in different colors and wore different clothes, but they were the same women.

* * *

Footnotes  
2 Wright or carpenter is responsible for maintaining and repairing the ship's wood bearings, timber and lifeboats.  
3 sausages  
4 Irish Republican Socialist Party  
5 Irish Police Force guards. Translation: Guard of the Peace of Ireland.


	5. Pirates

_please see Chapter 1 for A/N_

* * *

Willie saw camels in Morocco, right in the marketplace. It was hot and dusty in Northern Africa but he preferred heat to cold. You could always tie your hair back, take off more clothes and have an icy drink of water, pouring it over your head if necessary; but being cold is harder to fix. The boy remembered childhood winters without a warm coat when the gas company would turn off the heat until remunerations were made.

They were off the coast of Nigeria aboard the _La Fayette_, in tandem with the _Aquitaine_, transporting iron supplies. The second ship was needed to share the load because the cargo was heavy enough to sink the old clunker. The young sailor was topside on watch duty when he spotted two speedboats approaching the sister ship. They carried teenage boys and young men brandishing machine guns and shouting. Willie blew his whistle while running to the upper deck to ring the warning bell. In an instant, Jason appeared at his side.

"Look, pirates!" The boy yelled, pointing off the starboard bow as the ship's siren went off. Jason grabbed his partner and shoved him into his cabin, slamming the door behind him.

"What're you doing? We gotta get to stations!" The deck officer pulled stacks of money from a bag under his mattress, then hauled out his sea chest, removing the false bottom.

"Never mind that, it's every man for himself." He yanked the young man's arm. "Hurry up; help me with this."

His young partner complied unwillingly and together they stashed the cash in the trunk's hidden compartment.

"Jason, I wanna go!"

"Don't be a hero."

"I'm not, but there's—_pirates_!"

Willie could stand it no longer. He abandoned his task and ran from the cabin, crashing headlong into the ship's captain rushing down the corridor.

"Son, you're not supposed—you're not the cabin boy." He had an Australian accent.

"No, sir. Seaman Loomis."

"Well, get below, man. We need stokers. This vessel is making a U-turn."

"Aye aye, sir." Willie ran for the hatch.

In the engine room every able-bodied seaman was transporting or shoveling coal into the furnace. The bosun bellowed orders and threw a shovel at Willie. The ship lurched and tilted sharply on its pivot, sending sailors crashing into each other and onto the floor. The lights went out for a moment as machine gun fire was heard from above. The men shoveled harder as the ship tilted again on a perilous axis.

The sounds from above stopped. Willie stopped to listen until the bosun pushed his shoulder to continue. The machine gun fire resumed with increased intensity.

_We're shooting back,_ Willie thought. _I wanna be up there blastin' those guys out the water!_

_La Fayette_ reached its desired 16 knots and safely harbored late that afternoon in Togo, two countries away. The Nigerian navy had intercepted the pirates, killing half of them. Two of the _Aquitaine_'s crew also died.

The captain congratulated the crew on their successful escape. Willie stood on deck with the other stokers, dripping in sweat and covered stem to stern in black coal dust; only his sun-bleached mop stuck out the top. In lieu of showers, the men dived off the side of the ship and swam in the bay.

That evening Willie sat with his old partner on the starboard deck sharing a smoke.

"So, now you've fought pirates. Not like the sort on the Jolly Roger, eh?" Jason gazed at the Southern Cross in the sky.

Willie leaned over the rail, flicking chipped paint. "Didn't fight nothin.' Missed all the fun."

"Ah, well, it was better to play it safe. Don't worry, there'll plenty more in Singapore or Malaysia."

The young sailor grunted. He didn't like backing away from a fight. Not only did he see no action, but his entire ship turned tail and hauled ass out of there, leaving its sister ship in the lurch. The subject of his partner's personal cowardice was not broached, but duly noted. If push came to shove, would Jason do that to him? _Every man for himself_, he had said. Willie decided that wouldn't happen, but if it did, he would do it first.

**December 1977**

Willie and Jason spent Christmas in Hong Kong. They ate Cantonese pizza and drank Too Soo Brew,(6) watched fireworks and joined in a parade in Lan Kwai Fong featuring an Asian Santa Claus-_Sing Daan Lou Ya._ (7) The street was so brightly lit, it looked like daytime.

As he promised, the Irishman took his junior partner to see the most talented girls in the world. Willie assumed he was referring to Tanka prostitutes, or salt water girls, as they were known, but their actual destination was an underground nightclub.

British and American rock music blared through cheap, tinny speakers as completely naked women danced on the bar, on the tables, on customers' laps. Two ladies were engaged in some sort of bondage activity on a makeshift stage, another girl demonstrated her prowess with a bucket of ping pong balls.

"Happy Christmas, lad." The older man bought them two shots and two beer chasers, wiping the glass rims with his handkerchief.

Willie looked uncomfortable. "I dunno, Jason. This is what ya were braggin' about all the time? It's just—sorta weird."

"Ah, not your cup of tea?" He paid a young lady a HK dollar to sit on his lap and said something in Cantonese, making her giggle. "Very well. Finish your drink and I'll take you to Dublin Jacks for a game of darts. Then we'll head over to Yau Ma Tei(8) and find you a Christmas present."

"One that doesn't have the clap."

* * *

Now that they were in Southeast Asia, Jason was ready for a layover, so they spent a long time traveling between Taiwan, Australia, Vietnam, Singapore, Korea, New Zealand and Japan. The Irishman was up to his neck in business deals. Sometimes they had a dinky boat, sometimes an old car or a motorbike. Whatever the mode of transportation, it had a hidden compartment.

Willie's job was to drive. That's all he ever did. Drive, usually alone, sometimes for days at a time. And he was required to wear a baseball cap or keep his hood up, no matter how hot it was. The kid delivered packages from the secret storage to Asian contacts, every one of whom was named John Kim.

"What's in the bags, Jason?" his partner asked as they shared a dinner of rice and stew with unidentifiable ingredients. "Why won't ya tell me?"

"Because it's better for you if ya don't know," the Irishman replied simply. "To protect you, lad, if you're caught. Someone paid you to deliver their car and that's all you know about it. If they ask who, you show them the picture."

Willie pulled the photo of a Chinese man from his pocket. "I know. John Kim. But this isn't any of the guys we deal with. Who is this dude?"

"He's my tailor. It doesn't matter."

After a moment Willie tossed down his chopsticks and pulled out his switchblade. "Fuck this. I wanna know." He sliced open one of the packages on the table before Jason could stop him. Finely ground gray powder spilled from the container.

"What the hell is this, smack?" The kid asked as the Irishman carefully swept it up.

"Sure."

"I don't like dealin' smack, Jason." Willie stared at the row of packages. "Makes me think of those other kids when I was hustlin'. Those hookers were always shootin' up. . . They were always sad or mean or crazy."

"It's not goin' to them," Jason reassured him. "This is local product; it stays right here."

The boy shook his head. "I dunno—" He rubbed the finely ground powder between his fingers. "This ain't smack. Why are you tryin' to bullshit me? What could be worse than smack?"

"I didn't say it was worse," Jason replied dismissively. "It's a local delicacy that's dear to come by, is all. What have I always taught you? When you can supply somethin' people are willing to pay for, that's good business."

"So I guess it's a good thing we're not haulin' around kids to become prostitutes." His partner ignored the comment and returned to his meal. "You still haven't told me what this stuff is."

"No need to; you wouldn't understand."

"I dunno." Willie folded his arms. "Try me.

The Irishman shrugged. "It's powdered rhino horn."

The young man stared at him. "You're right; I don't understand. What the fuck? Where'd you get a crazy ass idea like that?"

"The locals believe in it. It'll cure cancer, impotency, hangovers, baldness, you name it."

"Jason, that's bullshit."

Again he shrugged. "We're makin' a boatload of money, son. This is goin' to bankroll the big payoff, the one I've been tellin' you about."

Willie thought for a moment with a look of consternation. "I know one thing it doesn't cure: dead rhinos."

"You'll never miss them."

"But it's gross."

"Be glad you didn't open the package with the tiger balls." Willie looked askance, wondering if his pal was joking or not. "Come on, nobody gets hurt. Everybody gets happy and we get rich."

The young man slumped onto the floor in a corner. "No," he said at length. "I don't wanna do it no more. It ain't right."

Jason looked with curiosity at his young partner, who always had a long list of things he was willing to do and a very short list of that which he would not.

"They're just dumb animals," Willie explained. "They didn't do nothin' to deserve it."

"And our other _marks_ over the years, all those people we conned and stole from. Did they deserve it?"

"Pretty much, yeah. I thought so. Served 'em right for havin' too much money and bein' stupid enough to let us take it."

The two sat in silence. Willie debated in his mind what his partner would do. Probably not dump him because the Irishman wasn't about to risk his own hide transporting the contraband. Jason thought that the boy was getting too big for his britches. It was better in the old days when he could just smack the kid around and give orders.

"Hey, why don't we deal cocaine?" Willie suddenly said, his face lighting up.

"And doesn't that hurt people?" Jason returned sarcastically.

"But I like coke. Folks don't haveta buy it if they don't wanna."

His partner considered the matter. "You know, the U.S. Government will actually pay a person to peddle coke over here. I hear it's some sort of money launderin' scheme to backroll an anti-communist movement in Central America."

"I dunno what that means," Willie replied, smiling, "but it sounds to me like it would be our patriotic duty."

* * *

Footnotes  
6 Locally brewed beer  
7 "Christmas Old Man" or Santa Claus in Cantonese  
8 A section of town known for its prostitution and "love hotels."


	6. Paradise

_please see Chapter 1 for A/N_

* * *

**May 1981**

Jason had friends, acquaintances and business dealings everywhere they traveled. He liked to boast that he'd been to every port in the world ten times.

By the time they reached Panama City for the big score, the conmen had amassed a sizable bankroll, and they were going to need it because the accommodations were luxurious. The implementation of Jason's scheme had a big price tag, but that's why they had saved all these years.

"You said we were goin' to Monte Carlo." They were shopping in the midday heat, picking out sunglasses for Willie and a straw hat for Jason.

"Yes, well, we've had a change of venue. I've been in contact with a very dear friend of mine—no, not those." Scanning the kiosk, he took the green plastic shades from Willie's face and replaced it with silver-rimmed aviators. "You have to look rich."

"Jason, everybody we meet is a very dear friend a' yours." Willie admired himself in the vendor's mirror. "Oh, yeah. I'm cool." Panamanian balboas were coins and not easily palmed, so he shrugged and actually paid for the goods.

They procured a two-bedroom suite at the Hilton, rented a red Ferrari, and Willie got new clothes: silk shirts and designer jeans, a red leather jacket, boots, sandles and a gold necklace. Jason considered having Willie's long hair cut, but in the end decided his little ponytail suited the scenario.

That first evening, Willie was lying on the floor of their sitting room flipping channels, dressed in a faded Grateful Dead T shirt and cut offs. "I could get used to this real easy." He studied the link design of his chain necklace. "How long's our money gonna last?"

"Ah, we'll be livin' large from now on, son. This is the one I told you about—the big score." The Irishman called back from the bathroom.

Willie smiled at the excitement and anticipation in his partner's voice.

"Hey, Jason, why're ya shavin' at night?"

"We're expectin' company, m'lad, and I want to present m'finest. It wouldn't hurt for you to put on some proper pants."

"What for?"

There was a knock at the door. The kid opened it, and his jaw dropped. Poised in the doorway was a statuesque Mediterranean bombshell with auburn hair, smoky eyes and a figure that could stop traffic.

She smiled as Jason pushed the boy out of the doorway and extended his hand. The woman kissed her host on both cheeks, and he escorted her into the sitting room, instructing Willie over his shoulder: "Close your mouth, and close the door."

He watched wide eyed as Jason poured her a drink. _Was she a hooker? She's gonna cost more than the Ferarri._

"Willie, this is Raquel. Say hello to my very dear friend and our new business partner."

The young man's jaw dropped again. _Partner? Why does he always pull this shit on me_? He managed to say, "hi." It sounded like a rusty squeak.

Raquel approached the young accomplice and took his face in her hands. She glanced skeptically at Jason.

"No, no, it'll be fine. He's an old pro, you'll see," McGuire assured her.

The beauty looked hard into Willie's eyes, then flashed a smile and kissed him on the lips. "Of course, he will," she said with an exotic accent.

Raquel and Jason sat in intimate conversation on the couch while Willie sulked in a corner, nursing a beer. The woman pulled a notepad from her handbag and discussed details of the operation, bringing Jason up to date with her dealings so far. Then the discussion returned to the subject of Willie as he strained to overhear snippets of their candid conversation.

"The poor language and manners, they can all be chalked up to the lad's defiant personality," Jason whispered. "I'll see that he shaves every day and with the new wardrobe—"

"Perhaps he will not look so much like a stray mutt," Raquel finished.

It was as if he wasn't even in the room. Willie scowled, waiting impatiently to be included in this dialogue. Was he a player in this game or not? Why were they treating him like some loser idiot? Finally, Jason addressed the scruffy kid sitting on the floor.

"Goodnight, Willie. We'll see you in the mornin'."

With that, he and the gorgeous babe went into his bedroom and closed the door. The young man's face turned red with anger as he got to his feet. He looked down at his half empty beer bottle and hurled it forcefully across the room where it smashed against a wall. The bedroom door crashed open and Jason rushed in.

"What happened!"

"Sorry. Accident." Willie glared at him.

Jason stomped over to his partner as they both raised their fists, but then retracted the threat and flung the bar towel at him instead.

"There'll be no more of that," he said in a quiet, controlled tone. "Now, clean it up. We'll talk in the mornin'." He retreated once more to the bedroom.

The boy scanned the room as he considered breaking something else; maybe that would egg him on. But he knew why Jason had pulled his punch. He was being professional. _Shit._ Willie slammed his fist into the wall until the plaster started to crack and his knuckles were bleeding.

He threw the towel back on the bar, noting that Jason had bought a bottle of scotch—for her—but no rum. The young man poured himself a tall tumbler and chugged most of it, and it hit him almost immediately. Willie weaved toward his bedroom, knocking over the drink, an ashtray and maybe a chair—something had crashed. He looked at Jason's door, but this time there was no reaction.

Willie collapsed on the bed. With the drapes drawn and the door closed, the room was pitch black and virtually sound proof. He could spread his arms and legs out in any direction and not feel the edge of the bed. Were his eyes opened or closed? The room was spinning, or maybe Willie was. He passed out and dreamed he was a pod floating in space to classical music.

* * *

He woke to find the mysterious woman was gone, coffee had arrived, and Jason was combing that oily crap into his hair. Willie stumbled into the bathroom and puked in the toilet bowl.

"Thank you for not missin'." The older man was in a good mood and made no mention of the previous evening's unpleasantness.

Willie sat on the bathroom floor, leaning against the toilet as his partner handed him a glass of water. "Aspirin," he managed to say. His tongue felt like sandpaper and tasted putrid.

"Sure, an' allow me to fetch it for you." Jason retrieved his toiletries bag. "You know, you don't need to be playin' your character quite yet."

Willie downed half of the water and splashed the rest onto his face. "I don't even know what my character is."

"There's no sense in botherin' you with details till it's finalized."

"Ya talk like I'm retarded."

"No, laddy, you talk like you're retarded. Now clean yourself up, we have a busy day."

* * *

Somewhat recovered and suitably dressed, they met Raquel for late lunch at a poolside table, and she was somewhat more impressed with the Willie's possibilities. Afterwards, they returned to the hotel room where Jason and Raquel sat on either side of the young con artist as he was briefed.

Willie had to admit, it was the best scam ever, and his was the best character. It had been all Jason's idea and Raquel had been the front man—or woman. She had found the mark and made initial contact. Actually, there had been much more than initial contact. As it turned out, she was essential to the operation.

The mark's name was Albert Zorin, an American criminal bankrolled by the Russian Mafia. Raquel set up a meeting that evening for Zorin and her to discuss the proposition. Jason would join them, and Willie would be observed elsewhere in the bar.

"You must be loud and obnoxious," Raquel instructed him. "Buy drinks, create a scene. Use this and make sure he sees you do it." She handed him a vial of cocaine.

Raquel renamed herself Anjelica and Jason was now Ernest. They were to play Willie's uncle and stepmother. Willie was the rebel son of a recently deceased owner of an oil refinery. His new name was William Hollingshead IV.


	7. Sex and Drugs

_A/N: When Jason, Raquel and Willie are playing their characters, they are referred to as Ernest, Anjelica and William  
please see Chapter 1 for additional notes. _

* * *

William sat at a tall table in the hotel lounge drinking rum and Coke. He watched Anjelica and their mark, Albert Zorin, across the room parked at the bar. She sipped a Rusty Nail and looked distraught, while he drank straight vodka and couldn't keep his hand off her ass.

Time to go to work. The young man scoured the room for a prop he might use and quickly zoned in on a cute little blonde chatting up the bartender. He signaled for a waiter and, nodding toward the girl, said "Give her another drink."

She flashed a big, white smile and patted the stool next to her. The young tycoon shook his head no, pointed to her and then to the seat next to him. She bounced over like a puppy.

"I'm meeting my girlfriends in a minute."

William grinned and put the coke vial on the table. "We'll get more chairs."

Ernest entered the lounge looking as dapper as James Bond in a white dinner jacket. By this time, his nephew was entertaining three party girls, laughing boisterously, and doing lines at the table with a rolled up $100 bill.

Anjelica was beside herself. Her hands trembled as she whispered to her brother in law, "Ernest, you must do something before he gets arrested again. Haven't we paid enough to suppress that terrible publicity?"

The gentleman sighed and strode over to the table as William looked up, wiping his nose.

"Hey, look who it is. Hi, Uncle Ernie! This is—I forget your names. Moe, Larry and Curley." The table thought this was hilarious.

"William, you're actin' foolishly and upsettin' your stepmother. Before you get in trouble—"

"Fuck you, and _FUCK HER_." That was loud enough to be heard across the room. Anjelica cringed. "My father's not even cold in the ground, and she's over there screwin' around with that asshole. And I know she's been screwin' you, too. Hell, is there anybody she doesn't screw?" Several patrons turned in their direction.

"Lower your voice. That's not funny."

"No, ya know what? It is funny. I think it's a goddamn riot that I got the entire estate, not a trust fund that you two could rob, the whole damn thing, and you got zip! And it's even funnier that _she_ got zip, 'cause that's the only reason a young bitch marries an old fart. But that's your fault, 'cause ya shoulda told her that you didn't get one cent when ya married Aunt Em. What a couple a' gold diggers you are."

"Please leave your Aunt Emily out of it."

"All her holdings will revert back to me. Hah!" He leaned back, grinning maliciously. "It's mine, baby, it's all mine."

Ernest looked at the young man's companions with embarrassment. "William, this is a private matter. I think you've had enough to drink, and we should leave."

"You're right," he replied mockingly. "Maybe I shouldn't drink anymore. Here, you take it." William poured his cocktail down the front of Ernest's white jacket. Jason glared at him, but William smiled back smugly. "But since I'm payin' your bills at this dump, how 'bout if I tell _you_ who leaves and when." William got in his face. "Leave." The girls laughed awkwardly.

"Party pooper!" William called across the room as Ernest returned to the bar from where Anjelica and Zorin had observed the altercation. A waiter brought him a towel and club soda to clean the stain on his suit, and the trio moved to a private corner table to continue their conversation.

"I could have him killed," Zorin suggested in an effort to be helpful.

"No!" said Ernest. "there's . . . been enough scandal."

Anjelica considered the matter, but concluded, "He's right, it's too risky. This cannot go to trial. I already lost once." Her skirt slipped higher as she crossed her legs. "Besides, I want to see that little shit penniless and living out of a dumpster. He's taken everything I had!" She started to cry softly, as Zorin put his arm around her.

"And we can do it." Ernest said soothingly. "There's a lawyer in Chicago who can forge an iron-clad will and testament that will post-date the original—signatures, everythin', but it will cost us $2.5 million. I know Anjelica explained to you we have the deeds to villas in the Riviera, one in Nice and one in Portofino, as collateral, but what we are is cash poor."

Anjelica squeezed Zorin's arm. "That is where you come in, Alberto. If you can front the money, it will all come to us, and little William won't have a nickel to take us to court." She scowled. "He will be eating dog food."

Zorin considered the matter. "What do I get?"

Ernest looked to Anjelica who nodded approvingly. "Eleven," he responded.

"Eleven percent?"

"Eleven million. We don't want to liquidate the assets."

"Of course not," the gangster shrugged casually. "I can get you the cash, but I still think it would be simpler to knock him off."

"Unfortunately that would bring the boy's will into play," explained Ernest, "and we'll end up back in court contestin' his beneficiaries, which are a great dane and two polo ponies."

"Alberto," his lady companion said in a low voice. "Would you take me upstairs to my room? This is giving me a headache."

Ernest sent the couple off and paid the check. He then signed for William's tab and gave him the exit signal. The young man kissed each girl and took off, promising to meet them tomorrow.

Willie and Jason stood alone in the elevator watching the numbers light with their ascent.

"Your timing sucks. I think we were gonna have an orgy—for _free_. Four people could fit in my bed, doncha think?" asked Willie.

"My dry cleanin' bill is comin' out of your cut," said Jason.

* * *

The following day, Anjelica and Ernest met with Zorin to plot William's downfall, so he was at liberty.

The young tycoon spent the morning at the gym and sauna, then enjoyed a massage at the spa. He went shopping at the court but couldn't find anything he didn't already have, until he reached the jewelry store where he fell in love with a man's gold ring set with a ruby and two diamonds. He couldn't believe that the sales clerk gave it to him after making a phone call. All he had to do was sign his name and room number.

William took his lunch poolside in new swim trunks. He ordered that tropical slurpee the girls were drinking last night and filet mignon, because it was the most expensive thing on the menu. Willie had never had a steak before and it was so incredibly tender, he savored each bite instead of shoveling as he did with most meals.

A little companionship would make his day complete and finally, he spotted the object of his day's quest: that sweet young blonde sunbathing on the deck. He sprinted to her side and stood over her, obscuring the sunlight from her torso. Sensing this, the girl opened her eyes, squinting up and over her sunglasses.

"Get lost, creep." He didn't move.

"I said, beat it." The blonde rose from her chaise and tried to leave. William jumped in her path, removed his sunglasses and grinned.

"Hey, it's me. Last night, in the bar."

She was about to sidestep him when her memory returned. "Oh, Will!" She smiled broadly. "_Where there's a will, there's a way_."

He smiled back. "I been lookin' for you. What's your name?"

"Don't you remember? I'm Curley."

After the bare minimum of socially acceptable small talk, Will invited the young lady to his room for a drink.

"Can you make a piña colada?" she asked.

"I can make a scotch and ice cubes."

"Never mind. I've got something in my bag. Let's go."

Hours later, as a beautiful deep rosy pink and golden sunset sifted through the window sheers, there was a soft knock. William's bedroom door soundlessly opened and the wall switch flipped on the overhead light. Jason could barely make out his partner's intertwined body and head buried in a cascade of platinum hair. The room reeked of pot and sun oil, and there were three condom wrappers on the floor.

Ernest nudged the young man's shoulder. "Master William, it's time to be gettin' up," he said softly. Will squinted out through the curtain of hair as Curley pulled up the sheet to cover herself. "I'm afraid you have a pressin' engagement. Say goodbye now to your little friend." Ernest left the room, closing the door discretely behind him.

Curley nuzzled against Will's chest as he gingerly stroked the most beautiful, pampered hair in the world. "Goodbye, little friend," he said quietly.

The couple dressed quickly and emerged from the bedroom to find the boy's uncle and stepmother sitting on the sofa, greeting them with polite, plastic smiles.

"Jason, I'm gonna walk –uh, her back to her room, okay? I'll be right back." Will escorted his date quickly out the door.

They silently began the long walk to the elevator. He wanted to hold her hand but it suddenly felt awkward.

"Wasn't that your Uncle Ernie?"

"Yeah."

"Why does he boss you around like that? I thought you were in charge."

"Well, I'm in a good mood today. And he was just remindin' me I have a meeting with my lawyer. Over dinner."

"Why did you call him Jason?"

"That's a family nickname." Will didn't miss a beat. "Because his yacht is called the Argonaut. I mean the Argo. You know, _Jason and the Argonauts_?"

Curley shook her head, so Will explained as they entered the elevator.

"It's a great movie—about these gods who live on a mountain, and this guy Jason is lookin' everywhere for a golden fleece; he sails between the clashin' rocks and fights skeletons and a lady with snakes growin' out of her head."

"Gross."

"Yeah. And he has a friend, Hercules, who steals a jewelry pin the size of a—whatsit? A _javelin_ from a treasure chamber on top of a—"

The boy shut his mouth abruptly, realizing that he was babbling, and she was bored. So, he pinned her against the wall instead, and they made out until the elevator reached her floor. When the doors opened, she stopped him.

"I'm good from here. Thanks. See you around, little friend." She was out the door and, with a cheerful laugh, bounced down the corridor.

"Hey, whatcha mean, little?" He called after her as the doors closed.

Back at their suite, Willie sat somewhat dazed on the sofa as his accomplices paced the room, lecturing him on the foolishness of bringing an outsider here, how it could jeopardize the plan, something about evidence—

But Willie was in another place. He was hungry. She had great hair. Sex was fun. Especially when it's free. Eight or nine years ago he thought sex was disgusting. Not anymore. He was really hungry. She's probably the daughter of a millionaire. Willie Loomis and an heiress, holy crap. Maybe an ambassador's daughter. She could be a princess. Princess Curley. Or a model. A short model. With his share of the take, he would be rich, too. If they gave him a fair cut. Probably not. Jason was always skimming off the top. Share and share alike . . .

"Are you listening to me?" McGuire snapped his fingers in the young man's face.

"Yeah, I got it, don't do it again. Can we eat?"

"Change your clothes, William," Raquel said, filing a fingernail. "Apparently someone made a promise to take you to a casino. So, what can I say? We go to the casino. Tonight you will make new friends and drop some balboas at the roulette table."

* * *

Another skill for which Willie Loomis would never be acclaimed was gambling. Fortunately, his outrageous losses were countered by Jason, who garnered a modest profit from the evening, and Raquel, who scored big. For her it wasn't even gambling, because men clamored to give her their money to bet. Girls got it good, Willie thought.

But it wasn't always just girls, he discovered. Across the blackjack table, his eyes met with those of a young man, tall, slender and tan, impeccably dressed, wearing just a touch of makeup. His companion was an older gentleman who supplied him with high denomination chips and a steady flow of drinks. The man looked from Willie to Jason, smirking.

"That could have been you," Jason whispered to his partner.

Willie looked away. "That's okay. . ." He stared for a moment at his paltry pile of chips. "Ya know what, I suck at this. Let's go."

* * *

The following day Willie was not permitted to leave the suite. This was it; it was the big payoff, and their female accomplice insisted that he be out of sight. Jason had his assignment, Raquel hers, and they would be gone the whole day. Willie flopped about the sitting room, ordered room service, and watched a dubbed episode of _I Dream of Jeannie_.

He wished he remembered more Spanish._ C__erveza, por favor, __¿Dónde está el baño__? No molestar. Bonita se__ñ__orita, __¿____que pasa__?_ (8) If he had a genie in a bottle right now, he'd wish for some company.

Raquel turned the key in the lock and entered the room. She handed him a bottle of Bacardi and said in her strange accent, "It is time you and I are better acquainted."

"Jason said not to drink today, because of the score."

"Terminado. We have it. Jason is having lunch with Zorin now, then he will meet us at the airport with a suitcase of money." She smiled, but with a no nonsense manner. "We are going to celebrate."

"I drink the pirate rum, not the bat rum."

"This is better." The woman held up two blue capsules. "These are also for you." He looked at her quizzically. "So you will have a good time. Now, obey your stepmother." She popped the Quaaludes in his mouth.

As Raquel poured his drink, Willie wondered if he was correctly reading this situation. Then the exotic beauty, without preamble, started to unbutton his silk shirt, making her intentions obvious.

Raquel was the most gorgeous bombshell of a woman he ever saw. Jason had said she was 36, but she didn't look that old to Willie. He didn't know if his partner would mind, but he couldn't help himself; the kid never felt so horny. They rolled on the sitting room carpet and crashed into the coffee table. Maybe it was because of those pills, but her bronze skin seemed to glow and she tasted like lemons. Under the drug's influence, it took a lot longer than usual for him to finish, but his enthusiasm never waned.

Afterwards she stood, picked up her dress and headed for his bedroom. "I am not comfortable on a floor," she stated. "Young boys. You do not know the first thing about how to make love to a woman."

The young man was sprawled on the floor, panting. "Firs' . . . thinggg. . ."

"Take me to your bed. Now I will teach you the second thing." She entered his room. Willie practically crawled in on his hands and knees, mustering the strength for round two.

* * *

Footnotes:  
(8) Translations: Beer, please. Where is the bathroom? Do not disturb. Pretty lady, what's happening?


	8. Paradise Lost

_Please see Chapter 1 for A/N_

* * *

Willie slowly regained consciousness to the vague, faraway sound of a man screaming. Disoriented in the blackened room, the young man found himself unable to move his arms, head throbbing and body hopelessly tangled in the sheets.

More screams, still distant but disconcerting as he tried to focus. The bedroom door slammed open and the light flipped on. Willie squinted but couldn't shield his eyes. Jason took one look at his naked partner, whose wrists were tightly secured to the bedposts with silk neckties, and said with resignation, "Raquel."

The Irishman cut him loose with the switchblade. Willie's room was a shambles, his things strewn everywhere. "She stole it, the entire score! And everythin' else besides!" Jason howled. "That connivin' thievin' bitch!"

Willie yanked on his jeans and ran to the sitting room (also trashed), then to the other bedroom. The sea chest was flung on its side, empty. Jason spun him around and grasped his shoulders; there was panic in his eyes.

"We need to leave. _Now_. Go pack your gear." He thrust a large shopping bag at Willie. "Not the new things; they'll go in here. We'll have to raise some cash."

The young man stuffed his old clothes in the duffle bag; he was familiar with the hasty exit. In the bathroom he scooped up his straight edge razor and all the complimentary soaps and shampoos. On the way out he also grabbed the fluffy terrycloth robe. Willie never saw the need to steal towels but the bathrobe was really nice, and he had never had one before.

In the shopping bag he put the soft silk shirts and red leather jacket, the Calvin Klein jeans, Argentinean boots, and silver sunglasses. He fished the gold necklace and ring from inside his ratty sneaker, kissed them, and dropped them on top. Raquel would've taken them too if she had only known where to look. Willie smiled; sometimes he wasn't so dumb.

The two conmen took the stairs to the ground level, and were about to exit unnoticed through the side door when Albert Zorin and his entourage stepped out of the elevator. The gangster wouldn't have suspected anything was amiss except for the expressions on their faces and all their worldly possessions in tow. Jason and his partner ducked into the dining hall as Zorin signaled his men to give pursuit.

The room was empty except for a maid vacuuming at the other end. She never looked up as Willie shoved a chair under the doorknob and the pair blocked the entrance with a heavy table, sending the white table cloth and place settings flying in all directions. Then they dashed though the swinging door into the kitchen.

"Ayúdenos a esconderse!"(9) Jason pleaded with a dishwasher, grabbing his arm. The wrinkled man pointed to a meat locker, as if fugitives seeking asylum in the hotel kitchen was a common occurrence. The Irishman dragged his sea chest into the freezer and someone swung it closed. The mafia members stormed into the room just as Willie dove under the sous chef's station.

"Where are they?" Zorin demanded. "Where did they go?"

He was standing right next to the prep table, his polished oxfords inches from where Willie huddled, holding his breath, frozen with fear. The others began to search the room when the young man realized he was holding only the shopping bag. His duffle lay discarded in the middle of the floor. One of the gangsters sidestepped it, and a teenage busboy casually picked up the sack and tossed it in the corner on top a pile of similar laundry bags containing linen napkins.

Just then the irate head chef slammed through the doors and approached the strangers trespassing on his turf.

"¿Quién crees que eres? No se le permite estar aquí!"(10) he barked, undeterred by the criminal who pulled out a pistol and waved it in his face.

"I'm going to ask one more time." Zorin glared. ¿Dónde está los dos gringos hombres?"(11)

The bus boy apprehensively pointed a shakey finger toward the rear exit. "Por favor, señor. . ."

The thug returned the gun to its holster, and the gangsters poured out the back door. After a minute, a visibly shaken Jason was sprung from the freezer compartment and his cohort crawled out from beneath the stainless steel table.

"Mucho grazie, beaucoup!" Willie called back to their accomplices as the pair slipped out by way of the loading dock and circled round to the parking garage's street entrance.

While Jason drove around trying to locate a pawn shop, Willie picked and bit at the stubborn knotted ties on his wrists. _Man, she coulda been a sailor_. He looked through the shopping bag at all the nice things they were about to lose.

"Can I keep my switchblade?" No answer. "Jason?"

"I think so. We may need it."

Selling their belongings raised enough cash to purchase two one-way tickets to Raleigh, North Carolina, which was the soonest flight to leave and the farthest destination they could afford. The conmen drove to the airport and abandoned the Ferrari in the short-term parking lot.

Willie rubbed his bruised neck and looked out the airplane window, which dimly reflected a huge hickey he did recall receiving. He wished there had been time to shower and eat before they had to skip town, but the hasty exit allows for no such luxuries, and the most this flight had to offer was soda pop and peanuts. Maybe at least he could wash up a bit in the tiny restroom, so Willie made his way down the cramped aisle to the rear of the plane and paused just before knocking on the lavatory door. He could hear his partner inside. Jason was crying.

Willie quietly returned to his seat, disturbed. He had never known Jason to lose it like that, and they had had a lot of close calls. But the young man knew it wasn't about being betrayed or swindled or even hunted by the Russian mafia.

It was because they had lost the score of a lifetime.

* * *

(9) "Help us to hide."  
(10) "Who do you think you are? You're not permitted to be in here."  
(11) "Where are the two white guys?"


	9. Hard Times

_please see Chapter 1 for A/N_

* * *

**June 1981**

Willie and Jason arrived penniless that night at the Raleigh-Durham airport and hitchhiked into a neighboring town where the Irishman spotted a nice-looking restaurant and they had dinner—out of the dumpster in the back alley.

"I learned as a wee lad that sometimes ya got to eat trash, but when ya do, make sure it's rich people's trash," he instructed sourly as they dined on half-chewed steak, baked potatoes and corn on the cob. "For one thing, they're very wasteful, especially in America."

At least he was talking again, but the smile in his voice and the twinkle in his eye were a thing of the past.

The pair hunkered down for the night in the open air alcove of a podiatrist's office. Willie sprawled out at one end, sweaty and exhausted. Jason sat on the entrance step, glaring in disbelief at the pooled light from a streetlamp on the sidewalk below.

"Mother of God," he muttered. Willie situated his duffle bag as a pillow, although it was clear he wasn't going to get much rest that night. "Where did I go wrong?"

"F'get about it, will ya? Go to sleep."

"Deceivin', ungrateful whore."

"Aw, c'mon. Ya woulda done the same as her if ya had the chance."

"Not her—you."

Willie opened his eyes and looked with apprehension at his partner's back. Jason wasn't drunk; the boy wasn't sure why he would say that.

"Whad I do now?"

"Nothin'; that's just it. It's nothin' but baggage you've been since the day we met. _Jason, buy me things. Jason, I need an operation._ All the times I looked after you, saved your life, and this is the thanks I get."

Willie sat up. He knew it was unwise to backtalk the old man when he was in such a foul mood, but spoke anyway. "Took care a' me? Ya mean when ya put me out to work on the streets when I was just a kid? 'Cause I still have nightmares about that."

"And it would've been worse had I not come along. You know what happens to runaways. They become whores and drug addicts, eatin' out of rubbish bins and sleepin' in alleys."

The irony of the statement was not lost on Willie. "Not like now."

"Except for me, you would've been dead years ago."

Jason occasionally said things like that when he was sloshed. And, although he rarely lost his temper, the old man could have a sharp tongue when he was pissed about something, and there was no one but his junior partner on which to vent his frustration. Right now, he figured, Old Jason was miserable, so he had to make sure everyone else was too.

Willie stared at the cement floor. "I think I woulda gone back home," he said quietly, and regretted it almost immediately. He was too tired to get suckered into a fight right now and too tough to think there was anything McGuire could say that would hurt him.

Rising from the steps, the Irishman turned to him and viciously spat, "So, it's my fault, is it? Nobody wanted you, boy, and you know it. Why do ya keep lyin' to yourself? You pathetic little shite, you were born with _trouble_ written right across your forehead, and it's nothin' but trouble you've been. I'm done with it."

Willie jumped to his feet as McGuire backed him up toward the stone wall with a threatening glare. The old man was obviously hurting so bad, he needed a hard sock to the jaw to make him forget about it, so Willie obliged. As Jason staggered back, the boy jumped his senior partner and the two tumbled down the steps to the sidewalk, knocking Dr. Lebovic's foot-shaped shingle into the street. Willie grappled and punched his friend, and Jason responded in kind. The larger man, however, got the upper hand. Fueled by anger, he pinned Willie to the ground and slammed him repeatedly, with his forehand, then his backhand, over and over, his face full of rage.

"Ja—Jason! Stop—stop! _STOP!_"

Jason stopped, his arm in midair. He brought it down to his own face and stared at the blood from Willie's nose and mouth dripping down his hand. The bantam brawler pushed him off and scrambled to his feet. Jason, emotionally crushed, crumbled onto the sidewalk.

"Fuckin' lunatic." Willie wiped his forearm across his face, smeared the red stain on his T shirt, and checked for loose teeth. Then he ran down the street and disappeared into the darkness, convinced that, if he stayed, his good old buddy would probably stab him in his sleep.

A few blocks away, Willie found a train station. He shyly approached a professional couple on their way home from a night on the town, explaining that he had just been mugged. Could they spare a few dollars to help him get home?

The industrious delinquent worked hard throughout the night accumulating swag. He collected two or three wallets and a dozen donations. The following night they would be able to sleep in a motel, albeit a modest one.

Less than twenty four hours ago, Willie had been dining on lobster flambé while watching _I Dream of Jeannie_ in Panama, but it seemed like a month had gone by since then. He was too tired to be mad at Jason anymore. What the hell. When you have only one friend in the whole world, you have to put up with their crap sometimes. Sure, they were going to fight; that's what friends do. And when they get upset—they say shit they don't really mean. Willie fervently wished this depression would pass and things would go back to normal. _A good laugh and a long sleep are the two best cures for anything_, was an Irish proverb Jason liked to quote, but he didn't seem disposed to either suggestion.

The wallets didn't have much cash but held several impressive credit cards, including an American Express Gold. He used it in a convenience store to buy two coffees and donuts before heading back to the makeshift campsite.

Their luggage was stashed in the alcove as before, but Jason was nowhere to be seen. _Shit, maybe he killed himself_. He checked behind the shrubbery, but uncovered no crazy Irishmen—dead or alive. Willie sat on the steps and took a giant bite out of his breakfast, coating his mouth with powdered sugar and his hand with oozing raspberry jelly as Jason appeared from around the corner. He had a black eye and a swollen lip. Willie pretended not to notice and focused on his coffee to mask a twinge of schadenfreude.

"I went 'round the back to relieve m'self. I'm not a complete bum." He said quietly as he sat next to the young man who, in turn, handed him a cardboard coffee cup.

"I dunno," Willie said with a mouth full. "We sure look like a coupla bums to me. _Things are indeed hopeless—"_ he quoted his friend's saying.

"_But they're not serious." _Jason finished it for him, and sipped his coffee.

Willie got his partner situated in an economy hotel nearby where the morose man just lay there in bed. For days. He occasionally slept but would not eat. He stared at the ceiling or pushed random buttons on the television's remote control.

"We're gettin' low on cash," Willie informed him. "If you don't wanna sell these credit cards, I'm gonna start usin' 'em, okay?" He spread the cards out on the floor and proceeded to practice writing the signatures as they appeared on the flip sides. "Which one should I be, huh? Antonio DeVito or Noah T. Rosenthal? This one says Walter Butz, but I don't wanna be somebody called Butz. Noah here's got a gold card. I like that one."

The Irishman did not respond.

"Jason, maybe we should ship out, go to Hong Kong again. I'll go back to that sex club with you; it wasn't really so bad. They got the most talented girls in the world, right? Hey, I'm gonna take Noah's card here to a hardware store and buy a hammer and a bunch of wood planks, then I'm gonna say, 'looks like rain, huh?' Do ya think that'd be funny?"

There was no answer.

"How 'bout Taiwan? You liked it there. We can sell those rhino horns again, if ya really want to. Ya know whad be even better, though? If we ground up some other shit, like rocks or somethin', and passed it off as rhino horn. Why didn't you think of that?"

Jason said nothing.

On the third day, Willie decided to cheer up his friend with some presents and took off with the borrowed credit cards to go shopping. He bought gourmet groceries and nice new shirts for Jason, gold cuff links and a matching money clip, and a bright green sweater he could wear on St. Patty's Day.

Feeling confident that this would help pull his brooding buddy out of his funk, the young man made one last stop at the liquor store for a bottle of really good Irish whiskey: Tullamore Dew. _Give every man his due_, as Jason would say.

But, it came to pass, on that trip, Willie's luck ran out. He was detained in the store office while the police were called.

The young man fought his natural instincts and did as he had always been taught: Don't run, don't resist arrest, keep your mouth shut at all costs. Willie was pressed against the police car, patted down and handcuffed, then placed in the back seat, just like in the beginning of the nightmare he had on a recurring basis. He was shaking uncontrollably when the officer riding shotgun looked over his shoulder at the young perpetrator.

"Jeb, I think that boy's gonna piss himself. Boy, don't you piss in my vehicle, y'hear?"

But, unlike the dream, these cops didn't hurt him. He was escorted to the station house, booked, and placed in a crowded holding cell. Willie sat on the floor in the corner, avoiding eye contact with his cellmates while trying not to appear vulnerable, but he was scared.

There was no money for bail, and Jason was in no condition to rescue him. Besides, he knew to make contact could implicate his partner. They had a plan to follow in the event of such an occurrence. There was a number to call—the answering service in Philadelphia—and a code to use: _Hard time._ But the prisoner wasn't permitted to telephone long distance unless he could pay for it, and there was no more than a small handful of change among his confiscated possessions.

What if there was a record of his fingerprints, and they discover that he shot a police officer five years ago? Or was it six? He couldn't remember in which city it occurred, but it was a coastal town, because he and Jason shipped out from there. They didn't stick around long enough to learn if the cop lived or died.

The boy took a deep breath, determined to bullshit his way out of this situation—or, at least, to give nothing away.

Willie was brought into a starkly lit room and seated at a table. The sheriff, who had a beer belly and the face of a teddy bear, sat across from him. He was fingering through a plastic bin.

"You're a very curious young man," The sheriff with a friendly, almost jovial tone. "The intake officer said you gave her a name but no address, no next of kin and no social security number. Now why don't y'all want to cooperate?"

"I wanna talk to a lawyer." Willie forced his left leg to stop bouncing.

"Don't worry, you'll get one tomorrow at your arraignment. But today we're just having a friendly chat. Let's talk about what was in your pockets." He spread Willie's possessions across the table and picked up the driver's license. "First, there's this. Trash." He tossed it back in the bin. "Then—what's this? You _do_ have a social security card. Only, we ran a check on that number, and it belongs to a Rose Marie Krajowski. Are you Rose?" Willie said nothing. He and the sheriff looked at each other.

"Never mind; let's move on." The officer spread out several more items on the table. "Now here's lots of identification but, sadly, none of them are yours. You're not Walter Butz, are you?" His attitude was unnerving. "We also have a fine switchblade, funny looking cigarettes," he opened the pack and sniffed, "And here's some coins: US of A, but mixed in there are these unusual ones in Espanol, and—what in hell is this?" He held up a 5-chiao from Taiwan. "With some kind of Japanese on it?"

The sheriff leaned across the table, his tone suddenly serious. "We're sure of one thing: y'all are not from around here, boy. You have no address, no next of kin, and you don't want to make a phone call. Now, come on, isn't somebody gonna be missin' you?"

Willie wrapped his arms around himself and, slumping down in the molded plastic chair, shook his head and refused to speak. He had the right to remain silent. The sheriff continued, "Oh, and—I really like this part—two keys: one to a fancy Hilton Hotel and one for the Econo-Lodge off the Interstate. Let's see, Room –"

"I found those," Willie blurted. "In a trash can—I been livin' on the streets for awhile . . . that's why I got no one to call."

"Y'all are tellin' me that fancy stuff in those shopping bags was all for you? Do you mind telling me why a half pint like you would buy clothes in size Large?

Willie almost said it was to layer them against the cold, then remembered this was June in North Carolina, so he shrugged instead. "I dunno how to shop. I never done anything like this before."

"We'll let that go for now. Let's talk about the keys instead. Just what were you gonna use them for?"

"Nothin.'" He replied defensively. "I thought somebody might give me a reward or somethin'—I was just lookin' for food." Willie's voice cracked and he flashed his big orphan eyes. "I-I was hungry."

The sheriff smiled with mock sympathy as he put the young criminal's things back into the bin. "Well, don't you fret, son, 'cause the state of North Carolina's gonna feed you for awhile."

Willie got a hot meal, a hose down, a haircut and an orange jumpsuit. At his arraignment, he also got a loser lawyer in a bowtie whose advice was brief.

"Plead guilty. It'll save time and money and get you a lighter sentence, maybe a slap on the wrist." The bespectacled mouthpiece had gray in his mustache and alcohol on his breath.

"Guilty to what? They haven't even read the charges yet."

On his counselor's advice, the defendant pled guilty to fraud, forgery and carrying a concealed weapon, but not guilty to vagrancy because there was no evidence, so that charge was dropped. Bail was set, and a date was given for a bench trial three weeks hence. Willie gave his attorney the phone number in Philadelphia and asked him please to call it for him and to leave a message. The man agreed, but he never saw or heard from that lawyer again, and his case was reassigned.

Meanwhile, Willie was sentenced to nine months in the state prison.


	10. The Slammer

please see Chapter 1 for A/N

* * *

Willie had never been to prison before, but he knew lots of people who had. Mostly his trailer-trash friends from the _Bremerhaven_, who were never short on stories and advice. Prison was not that different from being at St. Jerome's: keep under the wire, follow the rules, be careful in the recess yard. Most importantly, don't show any sign of weakness. They will prey on the weak. Willie was relieved to discover he was neither the youngest nor the smallest guy in the yard.

The first point of order was to join a gang. That afforded the best protection against getting beaten up, raped or murdered. The down side was you could be called upon at any time to perform favors—stab someone or hide contraband—and you had a mandatory lifetime membership. That meant the lifetime of your sentence, but for many is was the same thing.

Gangs were formed by segregation so Willie crossed the yard looking for a group of Caucasian gentlemen who spoke English. A paunchy, darker man (Mexican perhaps) called to him, "Hey, new bitch, come over here!"

This was a test. Being called a bitch or a punk was a signal to fight. Willie glanced at the white gang watching him with interest. He needed to demonstrate just how mean he could be, because the opposite of mean was weak. With an innocent smile, Willie trotted obediently over to the flabby prisoner and, on the last step, swung his leg back and kicked him squarely in the nuts. With bulging eyes, his opponent collapsed to his knees, and the new inmate smashed him in the face until his nose broke. The sight of gushing blood always makes a suitable impression, except with the guards who, conversing among themselves, never even looked up. Willie wiped his hands on his jumpsuit and resumed his mission to make new friends.

The gang eyed him with varying looks of curiosity, apathy, suspicion or antagonism, somewhat surprised that the little punk had the balls to approach their gang without an invitation. This ignorant greenhorn better learn the rules of prison protocol damn fast or he wouldn't survive his first day in the yard.

"Who the fuck do you think are you?" The obvious leader, a muscular, deeply tanned man sporting roadmap of tattoos, stepped forward with an intimidating stare.

Willie locked eyes with his and did not flinch. "Shanty Irish bastard."

The leader barked a laugh, revealing several missing teeth. "Me, too!"

After a brief interview, the new prisoner was accepted into their social group.

* * *

Willie's goal was to become the meanest little shit on Cellblock 11, but he was loyal to his fellow gang members and Tank, their leader, and mindful of the guards. After all, who wants to provoke a arrogant gorilla wielding pepper spray and a club?

Prisoner 2061245 worked in the machine shop (where he made himself a little shank to stash in his sock) and, when required to take a class in the evening, chose woodworking over Bible study. He ate bologna and grits for breakfast, slop for lunch, and slop with bread for dinner. Once a cellmate overstepped his bounds in an attempt to establish his position as alpha male and got beaten up with a pillowcase full of soda cans. Willie went to the Hole for that one.

The convict spent his fair share of time in solitary confinement. It made others stir crazy but he actually didn't mind it too much for short stretches; it was like a vacation from the yard. And Willie wasn't bored because, just like when he was a kid, the young man could close his eyes and go to hundreds of places. He could swim with dolphins, ride on whales, shoot at pirates. He was toking from a hookah, running through the Kilkenny fog, running from bulls in Pamplona, rolling on the hot beach with a well-oiled blonde, dancing drunk in the Hong Kong streets, sharing a cigarette on a deck with Jason.

Jason.

Willie had to stop himself from beginning every other sentence with _Jason used to say . . . _It sounded queer, but he missed his old partner. Jason had always taken care of him, steered his course, and _where the fuck was he? _Maybe he never got better and went to a loony bin. Or maybe he did recover and decided to start over without all the excess baggage. He probably found himself a new teenage moneymaker.

**September 1981**

Finally, Loomis heard his name called on Visiting Day. He had 90 minutes to think about what to say while waiting in line for a cubicle. But all of those thoughts dropped out of his brain in a clump because it was not Jason who sat down in the visitor's chair. It was Lydia.

His mother looked a little older, a little smaller than he remembered, but was still the prettiest girl in town. Willie managed to catch his breath and squeeze out a greeting, "Hey, toots."

"Big Bill, oh God." tears rolled down both cheeks as her hand reached across the table. A guard's whistle sounded, and she quickly withdrew. There was an awkward silence.

"How did ya find me?"

"Honey, I never stopped looking for you. We called the police, hired detectives. Richard paid for everything. I was so afraid you'd been kidnapped or hurt—or murdered. After all these years, we just about gave up hope—and then one of the private investigators called to say your name came up on a criminal background check."

"But Jason said—" Willie felt horrible. "I was stupid, I didn't think. It's just that it—felt weird, 'cause ya had a new family and all, and that—y-you didn't want me around anymore—I dunno." He looked at the floor as she reached out again. Another whistle. Second warning.

You're my baby. I will always want you."

Willie was uncomfortable. "How's he doin'? Your—other kid," he asked.

"Ricky's nine, and I have a little girl now, too." She held up a wallet snapshot of two chubby cherubs with blond ringlets and rosy cheeks frozen in a photographer's pose. Her oldest son looked at the picture for several minutes. Bright eyes, sunny smiles, coordinated outfits.

"Do ya take 'em to Little League and stuff?" He tried to sound casual, but Lydia detected the slight edge to his voice.

Tears welled up again in his mother's eyes. "Bill, I'm so sorry. I know I was a bad mother, and your childhood wasn't easy. If I had paid more attention to you and given you a better home life, you never would have gotten into trouble and ended up at that reform school. You wouldn't have run away—it was all my fault."

"Please—don't cry." Willie searched his brain for a positive comment. "You were prettier than anybody else's mom; I was proud a' ya. And you hadda go to work every day while all those other moms sat around on their fat asses watchin' soap operas." Lydia continued to utilize a tissue which had outlasted its life expectancy. "Sometimes folks haveta drink when they're sad. I know all about that."

That brought on a fresh wave of rhinorrhea and remorse. This time Willie reached out his hand, but yanked it back before the whistle reached the guard's mouth.

The young man continued, "Stop; it wasn't all that bad, and if it was, I never knew it. Look, everything turned out okay . . . except for this part now. I sailed 'round the world and had a lotta adventures, just like in a movie."

She smiled with a sadness that read, _still making up stories_, and glanced at the clock on the wall.

"We don't have much time. Listen carefully, I've spoken to a lawyer, and there's a good chance of getting your sentence commuted or even declaring a mistrial. Meanwhile, I've put $300 in your commissary account; that's the most they allow, so you can buy yourself whatever you need to get by. Promise me you'll take care of yourself, and don't get into any trouble, or this won't—"

The whistle blew and a guard shouted "Visit's over. Line up!"

"Bye, Lyddie—I mean Mom."

"Oh, call me Lyddie. That sounds better, don't you think?"

"Thanks for comin' to see me."

"We'll talk soon. I love you, baby."

She queued up for the exit. He got in the line opposite to be returned to his cell.

* * *

In the weeks following Willie met with his new lawyer. He appeared at a hearing and talked to a counselor, a judge and a probation officer. This was too good to be true. The jailbird was going to get sprung after less than four months. He could even leave the area to live with his mother and stepfather in upstate New York.

Days before his release, a letter finally arrived from Jason. It was postmarked Portsmouth, New Hampshire, full of meaningless bullshit and signed Uncle Ernie. At the bottom was a phone number. Willie shoved it to the bottom of the bag he was given to pack what little he had.

He waited at the halfway house for a week, as was required by the conditions of his release. During that time, generous travel expenses arrived from Lydia along with several telephone calls. Their conversations felt strained but surely that would disappear in time. She tried to put the children on the phone, but they were shy and wouldn't talk to him.

Willie took out Jason's letter and read it yet again. This had to be some weird-ass code. After a great deal of internal debate, he picked up the phone and dialed.

The receiver picked up with no greeting.

"Hey, it's me," Willie said in a soft voice.

"Where are you callin' from?"

"Halfway house."

"Get to a public phone booth, and call me back. Collect." He hung up. Willie did as he was instructed.

"Ah, that's better." The smile was back in Jason's voice. "It's good to hear from ya, mate. You're not an easy man to find. I only just learned about ya from a mutual acquaintance, another lad from that little gang of Irish rovers you joined; he too was recently sprung."

"Whadda ya want, Jason?"

"Just to see if you're okay, what else? We didn't part under ideal circumstances."

"Yeah, I'm fine. I guess you're doin' better and all. I'm glad. "

"Just needed to get back on my feet, is all. Make a fresh start. So, tell me, what are your plans?"

" . . . I dunno." He was embarrassed to tell his old partner that, at age 24, he was about to go live with his mother.

"You know, you're always welcome to join me, pal. I kept your duffle bag for you all this time. I'm headin' north to a sleepy little village called Collinsport, Maine, to visit a very dear friend of mine."

Willie smiled. "Does he owe you money?"

Jason smiled back. "No, 'tis a fair widow, and I'm hopin' she will bestow a token of her affection to my favorite charity. For old times' sake, why don't you meet me there? There'll be somethin' in it for you. What's our motto? Share and share alike."

Willie said he would think about it, and Jason left him a forwarding address and phone number.

As he walked back to the shelter, the young man grappled with his conscience. It was territory with which he was not overly familiar. Willie could not dismiss the fact that his mom had spent all that time and money to find her son and get him out of jail, while Jason just conveniently showed up after the fact, full of blarney and promises.

But Lydia didn't realize how much this was going to disrupt her comfortable, suburban lifestyle. Her friends would probably dump her when they learned she had an ex-con living under her roof. Little Dick would get beaten up in the schoolyard. Well, who cares, no doubt he was a spoiled brat anyway—probably had a TV in his bedroom. And Big Dick was most likely a big dick. Christ, the last thing Willie needed was some overbearing stepfather laying down a bunch of rules. He wasn't a kid anymore.

How long would it be before they found about all the other things their wayward son had done over the course of his criminal career? It was a sure bet he wouldn't be so welcome then.

Willie had known, from age 15, he would always be an outsider to the new family. Jason had told him so repeatedly, and that he would be foolish to imagine otherwise. The young man felt bad at the thought of how he had hurt his mother, and was planning to do it again. Before she recovered from her addiction, Lyddie had needed him to take care of her. Not now. Lydia meant well—she still loved him—but she didn't need him anymore. Willie couldn't see himself as anything but a liability.

Besides, there was somewhere else he could go. His best friend wanted to team up with him again. Even if Jason was a lying, scheming crook, they were used to each other; they were comfortable. If there was a new game afoot, the Irishman probably needed Willie to play an important part.

Willie saw a index card on the grocery store bulletin board advertising a truck for sale and used his mom's money to buy the dented old pickup. Then he stowed his meager possessions in a plastic shopping bag and headed north. He could write to Lydia when he got to East Bum-fuck, Maine, and explain. At least she knew he was alive now, safe and sound, and that's what mattered. When Jason shared his new score, Willie could repay the money. That way his mother would know he wasn't all bad.

Willie took to the road with a very good feeling about the future.

* * *

_End of Part 2: Globetrotters. Thanks for reading!  
(10 points if you know the significance of Willie's prisoner number.)_

_The Willie Loomis Saga:  
__Little Willie  
Globetrotters  
The Maine Event  
Changes  
This Old House  
Interlude_


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